Winning
by AgentEquus
Summary: Sequel to my other fic "Don't Look Down". Natasha confronts Clint after he saves her from an explosion using... interesting... methods, with some unexpected results. Recommended you read "Don't Look Down" first, but not strictly necessary...?


**Le gasp! A sequel! This was actually suggested by someone (thank you, Anonymous!) and I started it AGES ago but just finished it recently. I bet you all thought I was dead, no? I wanted to be for a while, actually. Midterms were a bitch. The writing muse also decided to take a vacation to Florida and leave me high and dry as far as inspiration goes. Special thanks to Squabin for getting my butt in gear, motivating me, and feeding the muse.**

**Don't own!  
**

* * *

Barton and Romanoff were sparring again. It's not that that was an unusual occurrence; in fact, it was actually rather commonplace. However, this was far from their normal sparring. It was the first time the infamous duo had sparred in nearly two weeks. There had been an unspoken degree of tension between the two since the events a week and a half ago, when Barton had jumped out a window with Romanoff to escape an exploding building. Everyone noticed it; nobody commented on it. Nobody wanted to face the wrath of two ticked-off master assassins and they all rather prided themselves on their sense of self-preservation… save maybe Tony on some occasions.

But the partners had carried on their lives as usual, with a few small differences. They spent no longer than five minutes in each other's presence outside of mealtimes. The master assassins barely talked to each other anymore beyond mission requirements. Essentially, they tiptoed around each other, ignoring the proverbial elephant in the room. At least, they did- until now, when they both happened upon each other in the gym of Stark Tower.

"Hey," Clint remarked amiably, glancing over at her in between shots. The arrows kept up a steady dull _thud, thud, thud_ as they hit the targets.

"Hi, Barton," Nat replied, reaching into her bag for cloth to wrap her hands.

"Look, about what happened-"

"Drop it, Barton."

"I'm serious!" Clint put his bow down.

"So am I." Barton saw the fight in her eyes and realized exactly what she was going to do a millisecond before he had his legs taken out from under him. He hissed in annoyance and glared at Nat. Knowing it was going to happen didn't make it any less annoying when it actually happened.

"Damn it, Nat!"

"I told you to drop it." Wait… was she _smirking_ at him?

"Alright, it's on," he growled, and threw himself at her legs, taking out her knees and sending them both crashing back to the mats. Natasha kneed him in the stomach and shoved him off her. They both jumped to their feet.

"You kissed me," she deadpanned, stretching out her fingers. It wasn't a question.

"I did."

"Why?" Clint tensed almost imperceptibly and some of the playful light left his eyes. A beat passed before he regained his usual cockiness.

"Make a bullseye and I'll tell you," he replied, throwing his bow at her. Natasha rolled her eyes and snagged an arrow out of his quiver. She bit her lip as she nocked the arrow, lined up her shot, released the arrow…

And missed.

She hit the target; in fact, she very nearly hit the bullseye. But the arrow had missed the black center by a mere few millimeters. Barton turned an appraising glance on Natasha for a few seconds, during which she thrust the bow back at him, then turned on his heel and started walking.

The next thing he knew, his legs had been completely knocked out from under him and Natasha was kissing him. He responded without hesitation, if not slight confusion. An eternity later (at least, it seemed like that, but Clint had never been a particularly good judge of time when he was being kissed, let alone someone as _freakin' hot_ as Natasha) the two master assassins broke apart, both slightly breathless.

"I win," Natasha smirked at him as she pushed herself off his chest. Blowing him a kiss, she headed for the gym door, hips swaying a _tad_ more than maybe was strictly necessary. It took Clint several seconds to scrape himself off the floor and head out after her, whistling to himself under his breath.

* * *

That night, the two master assassins resumed their previous seats next to each other at the dinner table. Nobody said anything, but Tony raised an eyebrow at them. He honestly should've expected the knives and matching enraged cries of "_STARK_!" that came his way when he suggested watching _The Spy That Loved Me_ for movie night, though.


End file.
